


Blessed Guidance

by neverafuckgiven



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Magic-Users, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:02:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23658817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverafuckgiven/pseuds/neverafuckgiven
Summary: Geralt stumbles upon the old, abandoned altar right beside the cliff’s edge. He’s just killed a basilisk and destroyed its eggs and nest when his medallion starts humming, heats up, alerting him to magic swirling in the air. He’s on guard, always, and, with steel sword drawn, he creeps closer.*Geralt picks up a magic item. He spends an inordinate amount of time time panicking because nice things start happening to him.Of course, he realizes not everything is about him. But it all works out in the end.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 128
Kudos: 1888
Collections: Best Geralt, Just.... So cute...





	Blessed Guidance

**Author's Note:**

> I spent a lot of time writing this. Way too much time. It was an idea that got away from me. This is such a niche fic. I like it and I hope at least a few other people like it too.
> 
> There are several game references, but they're all essentially Easter Eggs. You don't need any previous knowledge of the games to enjoy this fic. 
> 
> I don't know if anyone will be able to tell what Jaskier is meant to be. Again, niche fic. Again, sorry.
> 
> This, as always, is not beta read. I have spent a good amount of time editing it.
> 
> Let me know what you think.

Geralt stumbles upon the old, abandoned altar right beside the cliff’s edge. He’s just killed a basilisk and destroyed its eggs and nest when his medallion starts humming, heats up, alerting him to magic swirling in the air. He’s on guard, always, and, with steel sword drawn, he creeps closer.

The townspeople hadn’t mentioned anything other than the basilisk, but most humans don’t know one creature from another. The alderman’s son hadn’t been concerned with the details; though the scarred old man kept saying they should just leave it be, Geralt had been pointed in the direction of the cliff and the basilisk and had ignored the whispered warning to watch his step.

Speaking of. His feet hit a small set of stone steps leading onto a small platform. The entire thing is old and broken, covered in vines, with grass and weeds jutting up through the cracks in the stones. There’s a stone table in the center, again so covered with vines Geralt can hardly make it out.

He can hear the waves crashing beneath him and the wind is howling, whipping around him and making the trees moan. The sun even seems brighter, hotter; it’s painful to his eyes, sensitive with potions. His medallion is almost scalding him now even through his armor as he steps up to the table. He uses his free hand to start pulling off the vines so he can see and everything seems more.

His blood is pounding in his ears. Everything is getting brighter and louder, building to a crescendo until-

His hand hits something solid. Everything stops. His vision returns to normal, the sun no longer blinding him. There’s no wind, no noise at all, in fact; Geralt, for a moment, wonders if he’s gone deaf. His hand moves again though, nudging the object again, and he hears a rolling sound, a tinkling of a chain. He picks it up and holds it to the sunlight. His medallion, curiously enough, is no longer burning.

It’s a necklace. A simple silver chain with a small glass sphere. There’s some sort of plant in it, some small, scrawny thing, barely green and with no petals or color, but it’s hardly visible, the glass cloudy. The whole thing feels delicate as if he could crush it in his fist.

He doesn’t though. He sheathes his sword and, after a long moment of consideration, he tucks the necklace into the small pouch he wears. He’ll ask around the town, see if there’s some sort of enchantment on it or anything of note. If all else fails, he can ask Yen. Maybe she’ll want it.

Geralt whistles for Roach and, while she approaches, he cleans off the rest of the table, altar he thinks, it’s an altar, but the basilisk must have driven off whatever would have been worshipped here. Roach trots up and he pats her, stows his sword, crinkles his brow in confusion. There’s a breeze again, soft, nice against his cheek.

“Do you hear music?” He asks Roach, climbing into the saddle, and she shakes her head, snorting in response.

He makes his way down the hills and into town. These trees sound like music with the breeze blowing through them.

*

No one in town knows anything about the altar. The alderman is too sick to see him, and Geralt doesn’t question it, doesn’t mention the flute he can hear inside. His son, a man in his sixties, shakes his head when asked about it. His eyes don’t leave the necklace when Geralt holds it up, but Geralt can tell he’s not lying when he says he doesn’t recognize it. A couple of the women offer to take it from him, but he shakes his head and tucks it away again. The last thing he needs is to give some poor, unsuspecting woman a cursed necklace. He collects his coin for the basilisk and leaves. No need to linger.

*

Over the next few days, he takes to rolling the sphere in his hand gently. It’s strange. The glass is perfectly smooth with no seams, bumps or nicks. It must be a fairly new piece, but that altar was covered in growth, had been for years. Two opposing facts. Geralt sighs, looking up. Rain clouds. The weather’s been fair since he left, but his luck’s run out.

He makes camp that night under a thin patch of trees. It won’t be enough to keep the fire going for long and he’ll be cold and wet, but he’s been through worse. He starts the fire, eats and then kneels, settling in to meditate. He still has the necklace in hand when he slips under.

Geralt wakes the next morning and immediately frowns. Something is off. The fire’s been put out by the rain, but the embers are still warm as if they went out just a short while ago instead of hours ago when the rain was heavy. He’s also not soaked through. His hair is damp, yes, but the ground around his little camp is muddy and drenched; he should look like he’d been thrown in a lake. He glances up at the pathetic little tree he’d been forced to take cover under.

Strange. Geralt opens his hand, rubs his thumb over the sphere, and then holds it closer. The plant had been wilted only a few days ago and if he didn’t know better, he would say the thing looks. . .greener. The glass seems less cloudy as well. He tucks it back into his pocket and shakes his head. A trick of the light.

Very strange.

*

When he makes it to the next town, Geralt is met with the same welcome as always. There’s mud thrown, people spitting in his direction, people of all kinds fleeing into their homes; he’s hit with a rock at some point, tossed with just enough force to cut his cheek. He scowls, rolls his shoulder, and deliberately does not turn in the direction it came from. He knows there’s a monster or two here, heard the stories from passing travelers about people disappearing.

He finds the one offering the contract in the local tavern, a man crying his eyes out over a mug of something strong. Geralt doesn’t announce or introduce himself. He very rarely needs to. There’s always whispers that precede him; he can hear them now as he takes a seat at the bar and catches the bartender’s eye.

“We don’t serve your kind here, mutant.” The bartender sneers, an ugly pock marked man with hair so dirty Geralt’s not sure of its color.

He doesn’t even entertain a response. The crying man at the end of the bar does it for him. “Shut it, Micah!” Geralt turns his head and the crying man sidles up to him. “Yer a witcher?” Geralt nods. “There’s a beast in the woods. It took my daughter.” The man wipes his eyes, but fresh tears just replace the old. “All I found were bits and pieces of her.” He pulls out a coin purse and drops it with a small thud on the counter. “I don’t have much, but it’s yers if you can kill it.”

Geralt doesn’t take the purse. “Where did you find her?” Bones left behind could mean a number of different beasts. He’ll need more information before he can start tracking it down.

The father, Jonah, directs him to a worn path through the woods. It still reeks of blood even though there’s none visible and Jonah refuses to go any further, saying they had marked the spot. Geralt tells him to wait at the tree line and follows the path to an opening, the marked spot just beyond the tree line in the clearing.

There’s a stained spot on the dirt and the place has a pile of rocks with some old toys tucked against it neatly. He takes a deep breath in, tries to sort out the scent: blood and tears. The blood trail goes further and he follows it into the clearing, lingering over spots where the scent is strongest. He finds dark feathers in the grass, large ones, and deep claw marks interspersed between the blood stains in the dirt. There’s a tuft of black fur as well caught in a prickly bush.

Geralt sighs. A griffin then. They tend to toy with their prey, swooping down to cut it with their talons, chasing it for a while before it rends it to pieces. They’re also notoriously territorial, which would explain why it bothered with killing a child. Probably a young griffin, defending its new hunting ground and picking up an easy meal. He makes his way back to the path and to the other side of the woods where Jonah is wringing his cap in his hands.

“Do you know what it was?” He follows after Geralt’s quick steps. “Do you know what killed my little girl?”

“A griffin.” He’ll need buckthorn to make bait and he’ll need to buy more bolts for his crossbow.

“Witcher!” Jonah grabs his arm and Geralt stops, giving him a cold look; the man releases him with his hands raised in a placating gesture. “Did Lena-did she suffer?” When Geralt doesn’t respond, he tears up again. “Please. I have to know.”

No, he doesn’t. His daughter, a girl no older than seven, was hunted from the sky, the griffin diving and hitting her repeatedly as she ran for the tree line. She almost made it too before the beast got bored and started eating her alive. She probably died screaming for her father, begging for someone to come help her, before the thing was finished with her. What father would want to know that? But Geralt’s job isn’t to coddle. He’s here to kill monsters.

“No.” Damn him. “Griffins kill quickly. She would have been dead before she knew what has happening.” He turns away to keep walking.

“Thank you, witcher.” Jonah stinks like tears. It makes Geralt’s lip curl up in distaste.

“Your coin will be thanks enough.” He pauses. There it is again, faint in the distance. It sounds like it could be music if he listened close enough.

He leaves the man standing there. He needs to get ready.

*

He collects buckthorn along the river, knows the stench will draw the griffin out, and stops by the blacksmith to see about purchasing more bolts. The blacksmith, a dwarf with a scar on his cheek, doesn’t turn up his nose at Geralt.

“You’re here for the beast?” He asks, digging through his wares. He doesn’t wait for Geralt’s answer. “Well, you’re a witcher. I suppose you’re not here for the scenery. Terrible what happened. Lena was a good girl and her father’s a good man.”

“I’m not here for pleasantries.” He has his arms folded, leaning against the far wall, waiting for this interaction to be over. People don’t treat him this way. Not for long. The necklace is light in his pocket, hardly even noticeable.

“Aye, I can understand that. You’re a man of business! So am I! Here are your bolts!” He bundles them and holds them out, throws out a request that sounds like half the price it should be.

Geralt raises both eyebrows. “What?” He waits. There has to be a trick to it, some sort of hidden fee, like maybe he has to buy the actual crossbow or a sword for triple the cost. The dwarf merely stands there, holding out the bundle. “You can’t be serious.”

“Is it too much? I suppose I could add in twenty-five more, but it’ll take me some time to make them-“

“No, I mean.” Geralt stands, hears the glass and chain clink together in his pocket. “That’s-“ The dwarf is quiet, looking up at him expectantly. “That’s fine.” He pulls the coin out and hands it over.

He lingers like a fool, waiting for the shoe to drop and hit him in the head. Nothing happens. The blacksmith bids him a good day and goes back to work. Geralt takes the arrows and goes.

Roach stays on the path with the rest of his things and he lays the bait, finding cover. All he has to do now is let the bait do its work.

*

The fight with the griffin is an easy thing, easier than it should be. The bolts bring the beast to the ground along with a nudge of Aard. It’s larger than he expected, but it keeps turning away like it’s not concentrating on him, shaking its head as if it can’t focus. Geralt kills it in half the time and cuts off its head to turn in for the reward. He sits down to rest and then reconsiders. The carcass smells almost as bad as the buckthorn and to his sensitive nose, the two smells are even more powerful.

He whistles for Roach and then frowns. A gust of wind hits his face and, with it, the smells are gone, replaced with what smells like fresh linen, soft and pleasant. He pulls the necklace from his pocket, frowning as he considers it in the sun. Roach canters up and Geralt attaches the griffin head, pulls himself onto the saddle with a thoughtful hum, slips it over his head and tucks it into his armor.

He turns in the griffin head and tries not to show how startled he is by the townsfolk’s loud cheering. The last time there’d been this much shouting around him, there had been a mob after him. Now when the people reach for him, it’s to pat his shoulder or shake his hand. Jonah, in particular, embraces himself before Geralt can protest, a tight hug.

He ends up not taking Jonah’s money, but he’s then loaded down with food, fresh bread and meat, to take with him. Geralt rides off, bewildered. The children wave at him until he disappears over the horizon.

Every step Roach takes, the necklace around his neck tapping a comforting rhythm against his chest.

*

When he makes camp that night, he pulls the necklace out to examine by the fire. Now he’s sure of it. Whatever plant is in the glass, it’s becoming greener, looks like it’s coming back to life; the glass, too, looks more vibrant. He should leave the thing here, buried where no one can find it. He intends to do it, but when he wakes up in the morning, he scolds himself. In the daylight, he feels foolish.

“It’s a damn necklace.” He tells Roach, tucking the thing back into his pocket. “Vesemir would laugh if he could see me like this.” His medallion hasn’t been humming or become warm. He’s overthinking it.

*

The next few days make him more and more paranoid, though. He’s traveling through a notorious patch of country, one known for its storms and dreary weather; its swamps are full of foglets and water hags that snatch up anyone that dare to cross it unarmed. They use the weather to their advantage, lure unsuspecting victims into the mist never to be seen again.

It doesn’t rain at all. There’s no fog or mist clouding his vision; there’s not a cloud in sight, much less a monster. The sun follows him his entire week long ride through this place until he reaches meadows and farmland that surround one of the larger cities. Then it rains a bit, not hard or unpleasant, just enough to cool him when the sun starts to get too hot.

Geralt has his hood up as he rides past people on the road, doesn’t look at anybody tending their crops. The larger cities tend to cause larger problems. People tend to feel bolder in groups and cowards in cities tend to feel strong enough to pick fights with him. He can’t rise to the bait, won’t, and so he never stays long. He’ll pick up a contract or two and go.

He gets to the gates at sundown without anyone saying a word. Then one of the guards spots him. The man turns away to whisper into the other guard’s ear. “One of those freaks. You can tell by their eyes. Looks like his mother fucked a cat to get the likes of him.” They laugh and spit at the ground as he passes by. He calms himself by rolling the sphere around in his grasp, keeps his eyes forward.

He only gets a few feet away when he hears shouting and cursing; he turns and sees the two guards covered in bird shit. There’s an obviously startled group of bluebirds squawking unpleasantly above them. It makes the corners of his lips twitch up.

Geralt has enough money for a room at the inn and gives Roach to a stable boy to be tucked into a stall. The boy’s young, maybe twelve, and doesn’t flinch when Geralt hands him the reins.

The inn’s sitting above a tavern and the place, even full of people, turns quiet when he enters, his hood down. He makes note of anyone in the room that might be trouble (a few bandits in the corner, guards at the back door) and makes his way over to the counter, still gripping the necklace in his palm.

There’s an older woman behind the bar steps up, voice only trembling a little when she asks, “What can I help you with?”

“How much for a room?” He’s aware of the eyes trained on his back and takes a seat with a heavy sigh. He is suddenly very, very tired.

Maybe it shows on his face because her nervous look softens. She quotes a price and he doesn’t question it, just gives her the coin. He isn’t expecting the plate of steaming food to come out. “You look like you haven’t had a decent meal in a spell. Eat.” She smiles at him. “My name’s Henrietta. Just shout if you need me.”

It doesn’t smell like it’s been poisoned. It doesn’t taste like it either. It’s just meat and potatoes; it’s one of those heavy meals that sticks to your ribs, makes you sleepy and lazy like a cat in the sun. He hasn’t had a meal like it in a while. Once the plate’s cleared, he starts working on the mulled wine in his cup, making sure to go slow. He almost wishes he’d savored the food instead of devouring it like an animal.

“Do you want seconds?” Henrietta takes his plate in her wrinkled hand and she’s still smiling at him, staring him straight in the eye. She doesn’t look enchanted. “Cook’s got plenty.”

Geralt pauses. He’s low on funds and he shouldn’t be spending frivolously. One plate’s enough. He shakes his head.

“Oh, well, then how about some sweetbread?” He can smell it now, like it was just pulled from the oven. “It’ll need to cool a bit, but we can bring it up to your room once you’re settled.”

“I don’t have enough coin for that.” There’s something wrong here. People aren’t kind. Not to him. People don’t just do these sorts of things. “I didn’t even pay for the food.” It comes out harsh like he intended, but Henrietta doesn’t look frightened. She just looks sad.

She leans over to pat his hand. “ Would it make you feel better to earn it? There’s a ghost in one of the fields by the river; my sister and her husband have been trying to get help, but no one’s been able to get rid of it. And who better to do it but a witcher?”

Now this makes sense. A few good meals isn’t exactly an even trade for what is sure to be a wraith, but maybe-

“And, of course, my sister will be sure to pay you. You’ll have to discuss the details with her, but you can eat for free and your room will be cheap.” She holds up the coin he gave her. “This will do for the week. Seem fair?”

Geralt stands abruptly. “I’ll think about it. Room?” The tavern goes quiet again. He hadn’t realized everyone had gone back to ignoring him until their attention was back again.

She hands him the key. “Last door on the left. Sheets are clean.”

He makes it through the crowd and up the stairs unscathed. No one says a word to him. Everyone goes back to drinking and throwing dice. Geralt shuts and locks the door behind him before he holds the necklace up by its chain. He feels like he’s going mad. The glass is almost completely clear and the plant inside is green like it’s just been plucked.

He needs to show this to Yen. He’ll clear out the wraith and ride to Novigrad. Whatever this is, they’ll figure it out together.

He shuts the necklace in a drawer in the bedside table and cracks the window. He falls asleep to the sound of soft music on the breeze, but it seems much sadder than before.

*

Geralt contemplates leaving the necklace behind when he goes to fight the wraith. In the end, he tucks it into his pocket, making sure not to touch it. It doesn’t seem to have done any harm, but he’s paying closer attention now. The stable boy brings Roach around and gives him the reins with a small smile. Geralt’s too confused not to say thank you.

Henrietta’s sister, Josephine, and her husband, Clyde, point him to the back right corner of the field, where the ghost’s been spotted. They tell him tearfully that their neighbor, a young woman about to be married, had been killed by her lover in that part of the field. It burns their crops and has killed a villager or two by burning them. The men can’t work at all during the day. A noonwraith then. He meditates until midday and then coats his silver sword in oil before setting out. He sees the wraith floating by the river and when it notices him, it charges.

He casts Yrden, hoping to trap it and slow it down, but one wraith becomes four as it makes copies of itself. Geralt swears, hopping back, and reaches for his belt. There’s moon dust that will destroy the copies, but the wraith lunges forward, reaching to swipe at him.

Then it suddenly starts shrieking, all of its copies doing the same as one by one they shatter, disappearing, leaving only the true specter behind. Geralt throws the moon dust, watches as the silver splinters render the ghost corporeal, and then strikes, one quick slash of his sword destroying it.

He’s confused, pleasantly so because wraith hunts are normally more difficult, but he has to find the object tying the wraith here. He can’t wonder at small favors. Not yet.

Geralt searches through that patch of the field, looking for a ring or a veil or anything at all, when something glitters in the river. When he wades into the water and ducks under to grab it, it turns out to be part of a wedding gown, a large piece of torn fabric trapped between the rocks. There’s no metal or gems that would have caught the light, nothing that should have called his attention to it. There was no reason for the wraith to stop attacking either.

He sets the gown on fire with Igni and is tempted to throw the necklace into the flames as well. It doesn’t matter how much better things have been; whatever this is, it can’t be good. That’s not how the story goes. He has it in his hands, glancing between it and the fire, and the music has stopped entirely now, like it’s holding its breath, waiting for his decision. Geralt shoves it back into his pocket and watches the fabric burn.

He collects his money and rides back into the city. There’s no breeze, but he hears the music anyway.

*

He doesn’t stay in the inn. Henrietta tries to return some of his coin, saying it’s because he only stayed one night, but Geralt refuses it. She insists he take some bread and he rather stiltedly thanks her for it. When the stable boy comes by, Geralt shoves the bread at him and rides off. A few people curse at him as he leaves, but no one throws anything or tries to stop him when he coaxes Roach into a gallop at the gates.

Novigrad is only a few weeks away.

*

On the road, he makes the mistake of saving an old man and his son from being robbed. Geralt cuts down the bandits with ease and sends the rest running and screaming. The old man thanks him profusely and his son shakes his hand, tells him he’s glad he’s never believed any of those petty rumors about witchers. Geralt grumbles a bit and helps dislodge their wagon from the mud because no one’s watching and he’s not going to leave an old man stranded in the cold. The two ride off and when Geralt makes camp for the night, his fire doesn’t go out even when the wood becomes ash.

There’s faint music all the time now, but it’s rarely the same, swaying between jaunty songs during the day and slow ones at night when he starts meditating. No one else seems to hear it. He definitely thinks he’s losing his mind. The glass is completely clear now and the green plant has a small white tuft at the end of it.

*

Geralt doesn’t need sleep nearly as much as a human man does. He can go days without it and does regularly, really only stopping to let Roach rest and maybe meditate for a few hours in the meantime. He tries to avoid sleeping altogether on the road because he doesn’t like to leave himself vulnerable and he has nightmares sometimes when he sleeps. When he meditates, there’s nothing.

Or there’s usually nothing. This time, when he settles down to meditate, he can hear the music, a gentle strumming of an instrument, but there’s a voice too. He hasn’t heard the voice before, but he can’t seem to focus on it, can’t determine where it’s coming from. It seems to be coming from everywhere. The words are indistinctive, just murmurings, like he’s listening to them underwater, but the music seems louder than ever.

It’s hard not to hum along. But he knows better than to just trust whatever this thing is. He’s not a fool.

*

Geralt makes it to Novigrad and to Yen’s home in record time. He bangs on her door and she opens it, perturbed. To be fair, it is very early in the morning and he didn’t exactly send any word that he was coming.

“What do you want? It’s not even sunrise.” She lets him inside, her robe cinched tight around her, using her magic to light a few candles in the sitting room.

In response, he holds up the necklace. “Think I’m cursed. And I think this is why.”

She looks between it and him with an unimpressed expression. “Cursed?” She takes it from him, running her fingers over the chain and over the glass; she holds it up to the candlelight and examines the plant inside. “I feel something. It’s not cursed, but. .” Yennefer purses her lips and turns it again. “There’s something attached to it, but this doesn’t feel like any magic I’ve dealt with before.”

Geralt takes a seat. “Any ideas what it could be?”

“Well, it might help if you told me more.” She sits down next to him, still holding it. “Why do you think it’s cursed?” He tells her all of it, starting with the altar. He doesn’t get as far as the music or the voice; at the mention of people being nice to him, Yen rolls her eyes. “You woke me up. Because people were being nice to you. Geralt, you’re a simpleton. Have you considered that people could just be kind? That there doesn’t have to be magic involved?” She stands, yawning, dropping the necklace into his lap. “I’m going back to bed. We can play with your necklace in the morning.”

Geralt watches her go and makes himself comfortable on the chaise lounge. He wishes he could explain his hesitations better, that things like this-

He winds the chain around his hand and resolves to tell her more in the morning.

*

He wakes up to Yen shouting. Geralt throws himself off the chaise and up the stairs; he kicks down the door to her bedroom and stops in his tracks. Yen’s skin is purple. He blinks and then does it again, making sure he’s seeing clearly. Not all of her skin is purple; she’d clearly been applying a cream of sorts and had only gotten part of the way through because her face, hands and bits of her shoulders are bright purple. She’s holding a wet rag as if she’d been scrubbing at the color.

Yen looks furious, ready to dismember somebody, and she turns, her eyes immediately going to the necklace in Geralt’s hand. “Is there something you neglected to mention?!”

“You cut me off. Didn’t have a chance to tell you everything.” He’s trying very hard not to laugh.

This time, there are no interruptions and Yennefer’s scowl gets meaner through every bit he shares. “Is there a reason you didn’t lead with the important parts?” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “And is that everything? Nothing else? Even something that seems small could be vital.”

“That’s everything.” Geralt rolls the sphere in his palm. “So. Is it a curse?”

Yennefer turns back to her mirror and pulls at her cheek. “It’s definitely magical, but it’s not a curse. Whatever it is, I can’t glean anything from the necklace itself. It’s as if it’s shielded. If you’re willing to leave it, I may be able to find a spell to help.” She sighs and reaches for a clean cloth. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry. I shouldn’t have disregarded what you-“ She wipes at her cheek and they both freeze when the purple comes right off.

Yennefer takes the cloth and wipes at her forehead, again taking the purple color right off. When Geralt looks down at the glass sphere, the single white tuft has been joined by two more. It’s starting to look like a cloud attached to a stem.

“Huh.”

*

The necklace is on the table now. Geralt’s hands feel empty and he can’t help but stand awkwardly in the doorway. “I have to study it, Geralt. Would you please allow me to work in peace?” Yennefer’s flipping through one of her books. “There’s no shortage of contracts here. Go kill something.” When he doesn’t move, she waves him away. “I promise everything and everyone will still be in one piece when you come back.”

So Geralt sets out to find a hunt to occupy his mind. It’s probably his imagination, but it’s a noticeable difference without the necklace. It’s like it was before. People sneer at him and run from him and throw stones at him. The further he gets from Yen’s home, the fainter the music becomes, but he can still tell it’s a slow, melancholy song. He finds a contract, but the nobleman that gives it to him calls him a mutant and tries to haggle him down from a fair price to a ridiculous one. He clears out a nest of drowners in the sewers and stinks of guts and shit for the rest of the day.

It puts him in a foul mood and people dive out of his way when he turns in for the evening. He stomps his way back to Yen’s and tries not to throw the door open, but still manages to slam it against the wall. Yen doesn’t turn to look at him when he enters her workroom.

“You reek. There’s a bath upstairs for you, but I think you should look at this first.” He comes when beckoned and tries not to growl when she holds up the sphere.

The plant’s wilted and the glass is cloudy again. “What did you do?” He pulls his dirty gloves off and takes it from her gently. The moment his hand clasps it, the glass clears and the plant perks up, going green and white tufts returning. The music is loud again, and this time, the voice is clearer; he can’t tell if it’s a man or woman, but it’s happy, much better than before.

Judging by the look on Yen’s face, she’s not surprised. She takes him upstairs to the bath first and he climbs into the hot water before she continues. “Whether it’s pure magic or some sort of spirit, it’s attached itself both to the necklace and to you. I polished the glass all day, practically sang it lullabies, and it still wilted. It’s as if it missed you.”

Geralt has a tight feeling in his chest, just stares at that little green sprout, and realizes he feels fond. Of a plant. Of a necklace. Whatever this thing is. He can count on one hand the number of people he truly cares and now he has to add a damn necklace to the list.

Yen sniffs and laughs. “I didn’t add any soaps to this bath yet.”

He takes a breath and huffs. The water smells like lavender. It tickles his nose enough to make him sneeze, but it’s a scent he enjoys. Geralt’s careful when he ducks his head back in the water, holding the glass up to make sure it stays dry and clean. The water’s cooling quickly though and as much as he likes the scent, he’ll have to get out soon. “What is this plant called anyway?”

Yen hands him a bar of soap and shrugs. “It’s a weed actually. Most farmers hate it. It’s called a dandelion.”

“Dandelion, hmm?” He waits until Yen’s back is turned, feels like he’s talking to Roach when he whispers. “Hardly seems fair to call you a weed.” He runs his thumb over it gently and smiles.

The cooling water heats so quickly Geralt groans, tightening his grip on the sphere reflexively, and tries not to scowl when Yen laughs at him. “I’m going to leave you to your bath, Geralt. It seems as if you two need your privacy.” She shuts the door behind her and laughs all the way down the stairs.

Geralt hums, ignoring her. He always has to reheat the bath water with Igni and he’s never found it worth the effort to constantly cast a sign just so he can have a longer bath. This time though? The water stays hot for hours and he practically naps in that tub as he feels every knot in his muscles unwind. Yen finally knocks and tells him to get out, that it’s past midnight; Geralt doesn’t even bother to put clothes on. He just winds the chain around his wrist and slides into bed, making sure to crack the window so he can hear the lullaby the breeze brings him.

*

He stays at Yen’s for a while nonetheless because she’s as curious as he is. As long as Geralt stays nearby, there’s no wilting or sad songs though it’s obvious it doesn’t like Yennefer’s handling as much as his. He’s started to refer to the necklace as Dandelion in private when he’s polishing his armor or sharpening his swords in his room; it feels wrong for something so kind not to have a name and he’s taken to talking to it, telling it stories of hunts and of other witchers.

Geralt never leaves without it now that he knows what happens when he does; besides, it’s not as though it’s a hardship. Dandelion is a comforting companion. He’s gotten so used to the music and the singing that when he hears the voice clearly for the first time, he doesn’t even register it until halfway through the song.

_“Oh fishmonger, come quell your daughter’s hunger~”_

Geralt’s grateful he’s in his room, preparing for a hunt instead of in the middle of one, when he hears a man’s voice soft and sweet and happy, slightly distorted like he’s hearing it through a barrier. He drops the bottle of oil on the floor with a curse and nearly cuts his finger off when the sword tries to follow.  
_“Let’s not take off any body parts, hm? Though I could think of worse ones for you to lose than a finger or two, but I’d prefer for you to stay in one piece.”_

It’s said absentmindedly as if he isn’t expecting any kind of response and Geralt grabs the necklace from off his pillow, holds it up to the light, and says “Dandelion?”

_“Strange, it almost seems like you heard me there for a moment. But that would be ridiculous.”_

“Why would that be ridiculous?”

_“Oh. Oh,no. Oh, nonononono, you can hear me! How long have you been able to hear me?!”_

Dandelion sounds panicked, distressed almost, and the low rumble that escapes Geralt’s chest sounds distressed in return. “Calm down. Only just started hearing your voice clearly.” It’s weird to hear Dandelion take a deep breath to steady himself when he doesn’t seem to have a body or lungs, but Geralt’s not one to judge. “Hello, Dandelion.”

 _“Hello.”_ It’s almost laughed out, startled and pleased. _“Geralt.”_

He had known in an abstract way that Dandelion had to care for him on some level, but it’s akin to knowing how to kill a werewolf and actually being able to do it; to be able to hear the affection in Dandelion’s voice is twice as rewarding as any contract he’s ever completed. It feels like every full stomach he’s ever had, like every hot bath he’s ever taken, every cool bed he’s laid in.

_“It’s good to finally meet you. Sort of, anyway.”_

“Don’t know if this counts as an introduction.”

_“Probably not. Though it’s not as though we could do it before. I didn’t actually know your name until your sorceress friend mentioned it. You never once told anyone your name. Do you know how frustrating that was? I just kept thinking of names for you. Geralt suits you though.”_

Somehow it doesn’t surprise him that Dandelion is a rambler. It’s almost as soothing as the music was and so he goes back to preparing for his contract; once he’s finished with his blade, he starts to change into his armor. Dandelion stumbles over his words then, but recovers quickly, still chattering away.

Geralt doesn’t even think about it; he slips the necklace over his head and says goodbye to Yen. He rides out to deal with a fiend, a beastly thing killing livestock further away from the city, still listening to Dandelion talking and occasionally throwing out a comment or two in response. It’s distracting when he’s trying to talk to the farmer about pay and Dandelion is making jokes about the man’s frankly absurd name, but he’s been told his face could be made of stone and the farmer is none the wiser.

Dandelion is quiet when Geralt approaches the fiend, though; he’ll hear a small gasp or hiss when it swipes at him, but all Geralt can really hear is his own breath and the fiend growling, the hiss of the oil burning it, and the clang of claw on steel.

_“Geralt!”_

It’s not until the second fiend shows up that Dandelion speaks again, sounding even more panicked than before. Fiends normally don’t show up in the same territory, but the draw of easy prey makes allies of even the most temperamental monsters and, together, they corner Geralt against the side of the creaking barn.

He’s not even winded and he scorches the one with Igni, knocks the other back with Aard, but with his back to the barn, he doesn’t have much room to dodge. The first fiend catches him in the arm, cutting open his armor and slicing deep; he lets out a pained growl.

_“Absolutely not!”_

Geralt’s not really paying attention to Dandelion’s muttering until he sees the fiend start shaking its head and start howling; it’s trying to bury its head down and cover its ears. He uses the opportunity to fight his way past the second fiend and cut at its legs, dropping it to the ground for an easy kill. Then he turns his attention back to the first, thrusting his sword deep to hit its heart.

Geralt cuts off both of their heads and takes them back to the farmer for his coin, pleasantly surprised when the man gives him extra coin for the second fiend. Dandelion’s quiet. Not even one joke about the man. He rides back to Yen’s and makes his way up the stairs; his arm is throbbing and she’s out for the evening so he’ll have to wrap it himself. He’s half tempted not to, but he knows he’ll hear about it if he ruins the sheets.

He takes off his armor and finds the wound mostly closed. Witchers heal quickly, but not that quickly.

“Dandelion?” Geralt calls, hand going to the necklace without thought.

_“I am trying to concentrate. This isn’t as easy as it looks.”_

The words are mumbled, half slurred, as if Dandelion’s tired, barely there. It’s strange to watch the wound close before his very eyes. “Does it hurt you to do this?”

_“No, it just-it makes me tired. Can I even be tired? It takes a lot of my energy.”_

Geralt hums, sits down on the bed, and then lets himself fall back. He stares at the ceiling for a moment, considering. “What you did to the fiend. You did it before. What you’re doing-“ He pauses, turns the words over in his head, not sure if he wants an answer. “Why?”

 _“What’s the alternative? Let you get hurt? Never.”_ There’s three slow heartbeats of silence before Dandelion goes on, still sounding so tired. _“I was frightened with no power when you found me. I’d been abandoned. At first, I was just grateful you didn’t leave me there. But then I saw how people treated you and you were still kind to them, kinder than they deserved.”_ Dandelion’s voice is getting quieter, sounds like he’s more than half asleep and the necklace feels warm against his chest. _“It’s hard not to want you to be happy.”_

That warmth spreads over Geralt’s entire body, feels like a warm blanket, and he takes the necklace in hand to try and regain some of his composure.

Fuck. Geralt grabs the pillow and shoves it under his head, turns on his side. He doesn’t know what to do with any of that, can’t even begin to process it. He’s never given much that to the idea of being happy. It’s not forbidden and the myth that witchers can’t feel is one witchers started themselves, but he’s never truly thought himself capable of it.

The closest he’s gotten is waking up next to Yen, but it’s never happiness, not for him and not for her. It’s an easy feeling of complacency, telling himself there will never be anything better. It’s an unsettling thought that someone could want more than that for him. Even more unsettling is the realization that Geralt wants Dandelion to be happy too.

  
*

When Yen returns in the morning, she kisses Geralt’s cheek, smelling like another man’s bed and bearing the bruises on her throat with no shame. If this was twenty years ago, he would have been devastated, still thinking he loved her, but now he merely leans back in his chair and goes back to his cup of tea. 

“Dandelion’s talking now.” He mentions after he finishes it, pulling his legs out of her chair where he had them propped up; she takes a seat with her own cup.

“An exciting change. Was his first word mommy or daddy?” Even beneath the sarcasm, he knows Yennefer is genuinely interested or else she wouldn’t have responded. “When should I expect full sentences?”

_“Haha.”_ Jaskier tells him in a flat tone. _“Tell her my first sentence was for her to go fuck herself.”_ He sounds like he’s pouting.

Geralt frowns, but before he can respond, Yennefer spits out her tea. “Ugh! It tastes like bath water!” Then, there’s a cracking sound and she goes tumbling down, the back legs of her chair split in half. She hits the ground squarely on her ass and her cup full of tea goes into her lap.

Yennefer looks up at Geralt, face thunderous. “Did your Dandelion do that? Well, your precious little flower will spend eternity at the bottom of the lake if I have my way!”

_“Tell that disrespectful hag she can try! See if anyone will have her when I make her hair fall out!”_

“Enough!” Geralt shouts, slamming his fist down on the table. “You two can’t even have a conversation and you hate each other. How is that possible?”

Yennefer throws her hands up, getting to her feet, waving his hands away. “Come talk to me when your jewelry isn’t throwing a tantrum!” She storms up the stairs to her study and locks the door behind her.

“What the hell was that?” Geralt asks. “Why are you picking a fight with her?”

 _“Me? Picking a fight with her? When you left me with her, she tried to rip me out! What did she tell you again? ‘Singing me lullabies’? Horseshit! She’s a power hungry, malicious, and unfaithful woman and I am appalled that you chose her of all-“_ Dandelion makes a disgusted sound. _“If there was a way for her to use my power and take it for her own, she’d do it, Geralt. Even if it meant destroying me, killing me-”_

Geralt thinks it all over, sorts through the rage and fear he can hear in Dandelion’s voice, and sighs. “Yennefer is a complicated woman. Is she always looking for more power? Yes. But she isn’t malicious. She wouldn’t destroy you. Wouldn’t let her even if she wanted to.” He clears his throat. “Unfaithful?”

 _“She was obviously with another man last night.”_ Dandelion sounds more hesitant now. _“Unless you two have some sort of arrangement-“_

“Yennefer and I haven’t been that way in a long time.” Their relationship’s stronger this way. The sex between them was always fun, but that’s all. “She can do what she likes.”

Dandelion’s quiet for a moment. _“I suppose we can call a truce. But I won’t apologize!”_

“Wouldn’t even dream of asking.”

  
*

Yennefer accepts the offer of a truce and doesn’t offer any apologies of her own, which Geralt is ultimately fine with. She does, however, hold a hand out, waiting for him to give her the necklace. With Dandelion’s weary permission, Geralt places it in her palm.

“So you can hear him now?” He can feel her magic moving, swirling around Dandelion, poking and prodding. “It’s safe to assume he’s becoming stronger?” Yennefer, for once in her life, seems to be considering her choice of words. “You say he can influence people’s minds. How do you know he’s not using his powers on you? How do you know he’s not influencing your mind?”

The silence is palpable. For the second time since he picked up Dandelion, there is no music. It’s eerie. It reminds him of that first day at the altar and that day in front of the fire; he remembers what Dandelion told him about being afraid that first day.

 _“I’m going to be sick.”_ It’s a absurd thought. Dandelion doesn’t have a stomach. But the terror in his voice makes Geralt feel like vomiting _. “Is that what I’ve been doing? Have I been manipulating you and not even realized it?”_

“Dandelion, calm down-“ Geralt reaches for the necklace, but Yennefer yelps and drops the necklace to the floor, clutching her hand; he can see the spot on her palm where she’s been burned.

 _“Don’t touch me! I didn’t think I was hurting anyone. I was just trying to make them less afraid of you, make them nicer.”_ His voice is getting faster, flying into full fledged panic. _“Is that why you couldn’t throw me away? You wanted to, but you never did! Was I making you do that? I knew I was getting stronger, feeling better, but I wasn’t trying to-“_

Geralt drops to his knees and gets a hand on the necklace, picks it up despite the initial pain. The heat is gone immediately anyway. “Yennefer, you can-“ He taps his head and she puts a hand on his shoulder, knows her way inside his thoughts as clearly as her own; now that she has an invitation, she can hear and see everything Geralt does.

“ _Geralt, why did you do that! That was going to burn you, you idiot!”_

“Knew you wouldn’t hurt me.” 

_“How could you know? If I were playing with your mind?”_

“Is this Dandelion? I’m not sure what I was expecting to hear. I thought you’d be older. You sound as if you’re barely a man.” Yennefer’s moving in his mind, sifting through memories; it always gives him a headache when she does it, but this time, he can feel Dandelion moving behind her, soothing out the pain.

_“Oh, wonderful, as if this couldn’t get any worse.”_

“Thought you two had a truce.”

_“A truce doesn’t mean I have to be nice. Besides, I’m having a bad day.”_

Yennefer pulls away from both his body and his mind, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Good thing, I didn’t need to hear him for long.” Geralt rises up, still holding Dandelion, so he can look her in the eye. “Now, as knowledgeable as I am about most things magic, I am not an endless fount of information. So I am telling you this based purely off what you have told me and what I saw in your memories. Dandelion is not making you or anyone else act in any way they don’t want to.”

 _“. . .Is she sure? How does she know?”_ He sounds less distressed now at least and Geralt communicates the question to Yen, who doesn’t even look exasperated. 

“Dandelion, as best as I can explain, isn’t making anyone act differently. He’s using whatever power he has to make you more likeable and you do need all the help you can get.” Yennefer looks amused. “Have you ever looked at someone and been attracted to them? Been drawn to them? You’re not compelled to go to them but you want to. That’s how Dandelion is making these people look at you. All of those people being kind to you? They don’t have to be nice to you. They just want to.”

_“That doesn’t explain why she was so sure I wasn’t doing that to you.”_

“Because this power Dandelion has isn’t like your Axii, Geralt. When you use your sign to make a man jump off a cliff, he is compelled to do it. He has no choice in the matter unless he resists it, which is nigh impossible for the average human. When Dandelion uses his power, it’s the equivalent of making a rousing speech in magical form. The man doesn’t have to jump off the cliff, but Dandelion is so damn inspiring that he wants to. And it’s very possible Dandelion’s not even intentionally doing it.” Yennefer takes a seat. “Witchers are naturally resistant to magic. The only way Dandelion could influence you was by making you want to keep him. The music, the smells, the battles. You could throw him away, but why would you?”

“That make you feel better?” Geralt asks quietly once it’s clear Yennefer’s said her peace; he’s been gently rubbing the glass sphere with his thumb, bizarrely imagining it’s Dandelion’s cheek.

 _“It does. This all seems so familiar, but I can’t remember learning any of it. I suppose this also explains how I could help you against your enemies. If I can inspire and attract, I could do the opposite in theory.”_ Dandelion sounds mollified. _“I imagine she’ll want a thank you.”_

Yennefer, to her credit, manages to keep any smugness off her face when Geralt relays the message. “You’re both welcome. Though it does beg the question. What are you? Are you bound to the necklace? Are you growing in power or are you regaining powers that had been sealed away?”

“Yen.” Geralt holds a hand up. “As much fun as this has been.”

“Yes, it has been an eventful morning.” She gestures for them to go. “I’ll have to do more research. Let me know about any other changes.”

Geralt lets the door close behind him as he leaves. It’s only midday, but he feels drained. He wants to crawl back into bed and doze. What would Vesemir say?

_“Can we go back to bed?”_

He huffs. “Yeah.” Geralt makes his way back to the bedroom and gets comfortable, looking up at the ceiling.

 _“I don’t have a lot of memories. From before. I think I had a family, but I don’t remember their faces. The first thing I really remember is the altar.”_ Dandelion’s voice is low like he thinks someone might overhear. _“People would come and pray. Ask for better songs or stories or for fame or for love. I helped at first where I could. But my powers started fading and people stopped visiting. I was on the altar a long time. Alone.”_ Then his voice becomes a whisper _. “Until you.”_

Geralt doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t trust himself to say anything.

 _“You weren’t even looking for me and you found me. You didn’t leave me, but you never asked me for anything. You carried me with you and slept in the rain and had stones thrown at you and you never asked! I thought maybe it was because my powers were still weak, but I got stronger and you noticed and-“_ Dandelion’s voice sounds choked. “ _You still never asked. Not for anything, not even once.”_

“Didn’t trust you at first.” Geralt finally admits in a voice just as quiet. “People want witchers to kill their monsters and leave. We’re freaks until they need us and again the minute they don’t.” He grunts. “Good things don’t happen to us. To me.” He pauses. “Not until you.”

 _“Well, I’m glad you appreciated it! Never once said thank you.”_ Dandelion laughs, sniffling a bit.

“Not the stuff you did.” Geralt’s tired now, rolls over to bury his face in the pillow, winds the necklace in his grip. “You’re the good thing. Just you.” He shuts his eyes.

 _“For fuck’s sake, Geralt, you are not helping me here at all.”_ Dandelion’s voice is fading out, but it’s pained. “ _Don’t do this to me. Please.”_

“Don’t do what?” And then he’s gone like a blown out candle. He wonders what Dandelion was going on about. He’ll ask about it later.

*

Geralt never ends up asking about it. Dandelion dances around the subject of that night with ease, turns the conversation to any other topic, and Geralt allows him to. With every passing day, Dandelion talks more and more and more. If it were anyone else, Geralt’s patience would have run out immediately. There are times, of course, he wants Dandelion to be quiet, but they are few and far between. 

Geralt takes him over every inch of the city. They go to every tavern, every street performance, and watch every play; they go to some of the plays twice because Dandelion seems so enraptured with the stage, but it’s nothing compared to when they see a traveling bard for the first time. Well. It isn’t Geralt’s first time seeing one, but Dandelion is awestruck, insisting

Geralt stop so they can listen to the man perform. 

Then, the awe is gone and Dandelion becomes the worst fucking critic Geralt has ever heard in his life. 

_“This poor man needs better material. I hope he didn’t write any of this because it is dreadful. Actually it’s all dreadful. He can’t stay on rhythm and he doesn’t recognize his range at all. That poor lute sounds like it’s being beaten.”_

Geralt grunts, drinking his ale. He can’t exactly respond in public. He made the mistake of trying once and a man next to him thought Geralt was trying to make conversation with him.

He’d been insulted when Geralt told him to fuck off and Dandelion had laughed for a good hour.

In between ‘broadening Geralt’s palate’, Geralt finds contracts (searches for them desperately because he will not sit through The Doppler’s Salvation again not even for Dandelion; the actor playing the witcher is awful) and only managed to find two. One is for a water hag that’s been killing farmers that travel on the back roads out of the city and the other turns out to just be a pack of wolves stealing sheep. He makes Dandelion promise not to help on either of them; part of it is because of his pride and the other part is knowing how tiring it is for Dandelion.

Besides, they’re both easy hunts. You wouldn’t know it by the way Dandelion praises him after, like he’s singlehandedly killed a higher vampire or something equally as impossible. It shouldn’t make Geralt puff out his chest with pride, but it does. With every hunt, every new experience, Dandelion seems to write another new song. 

Geralt’s never been a poetic man, but he wants to give Dandelion a thousand new songs.

*

It’s a little over a month during their stay at Yen’s that Geralt realizes both he and Dandelion are getting increasingly more bored. Yennefer’s research is going slowly and she hasn’t uncovered anything new yet. She and Dandelion are butting heads more and more and Geralt’s not exactly good at playing peacemaker.

She tosses them out with the promise that she’ll find them if she has news and that maybe they should look for Triss to see if she can give them any information. So Geralt and Dandelion leave, riding towards Vizima. He’s lucky a month of sleeping in and taking hot baths haven’t made him soft. 

The path welcomes him home with a new contract with every town they pass and with a bounty of coin for each monster. Dandelion’s magic has people acting civilly towards him and it never gets less surprising. There are a few people that still spit in his direction, but they always get shit on by birds or thrown by their horse or, in one particularly memorable encounter, tackled to the ground by an irate circle of dwarves.

Each new city seems to give Dandelion a new little burst of power; using them doesn’t seem to tire him as much anymore and Geralt is consistently riding in perfect weather or being smiled at. Even cats that would usually hiss and run pay him no mind. 

He realizes just how much power Dandelion has when he falls asleep one night and sees a distorted image of a young man staring back at him.

“ _Geralt_?” It makes his heart jump into his throat. Dandelion. That’s Dandelion’s voice, clearer than it’s ever been, though still muffled. “ _Geralt, is that you?”_

“Dandelion.” He reaches out to touch and his hand meets what feels like a wall of glass. It’s smooth, cloudy, like the necklace had been at first. There’s no visible opening and the wall seems to go on forever. 

_“I can see you!”_ Dandelion puts a hand to the wall as well, right where Geralt’s is. “ _Or kind of. Good grief, you are a wide man. Are all witchers so. . .bulky?”_

“You’ve never seen me?” But now that he thinks about it, none of Dandelion’s snide critics or jokes have ever been based off of sight. It makes sense. “You haven’t seen anything. At least not clearly.”

 _“No. It’s all been blurry like the way I’m seeing you right now. And- And you always held me so close. I could never get a look at you.”_ Dandelion says cautiously. _“I wanted to. I still want to, but there’s never been an opening.”_ The idea makes Geralt step back, drop his hand. “ _Where_ -“

“Step back.” It’s a growl and when Dandelion obeys, Geralt raises his hand to cast Aard. Nothing happens. He tries Igni and still nothing. “Fuck!” It’s stupid and impulsive, but he hits the glass with his fist and once he starts, he can’t seem to stop.

“ _What are you doing?! Do you really think that’s going to get you anywhere?”_ Dandelion sounds frustrated; Geralt can see him gesturing wildly. Figures he’d talk with his hands as much as his mouth.

“What do you expect me to do?! Nothing?!” Fuck, he doesn’t know why he’s so angry, so frustrated, punching the glass as he speaks. “You’re trapped inside this fucking necklace and I can’t do anything about it!”

“ _Geralt, stop! You’re going to hurt yo-“_

At that, there’s a sharp, cracking sound that makes Geralt jump back; a large crack spreads across the wall lightning fast and there’s a force that throws him out of his dream, sitting up in his bedroll like a shot. His hand instinctively reaches to clasp the sphere and pulls it off; even in the dark with no moonlight, his eyes can see the large crack that’s formed in the glass.

“Dandelion, are you okay?” He keeps his voice low.

 _“I’m here_.” Geralt sighs, rubs his thumb over the splintered glass in relief. 

“What happened?”

“ _We can talk about it in the morning.”_ Geralt lays back down and looks up at the stars. He hopes one day Dandelion will have a chance to look at them.

*

They don’t talk about it and Geralt can recognize a pattern developing. Dandelion insists he’s not in any pain, though he refuses to go into any detail, and Geralt is reluctant to push him further. Neither one of them knows how Dandelion is attached to the necklace and what the crack actually means or maybe Dandelion does know and he just hasn’t shared it with Geralt. The idea makes him ill-tempered, that he’s not trusted with something as important as Dandelion’s safety.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting, that maybe Dandelion and whatever magic would repair it, but in the middle of a hunt, he gets a particularly nasty slash across his thigh; he hears more glass splintering and the ghoul that did it explodes. Once he dispatches the others, he practically rips the necklace from underneath his armor to see the crack has gotten larger.

“What the hell, Dandelion?!” He’s wrapping his thigh and maybe the pain is making him mean, but he’s actually losing his temper, raising his voice and making a flock of birds scatter from a nearby tree.

 _“I don’t know what you want me to say! I’m not trying to make this happen_!” Dandelion’s shouting too and there’s a crack of thunder in a clear sky, storm clouds gathering.

They’ve had disagreements before, but not like this, never like this. Geralt’s chest is tight. Painful, even.

“I told you to stop helping me! Whatever’s happening to your powers is making this worse!” He tosses the rag to the ground childishly and throws his hands up in the air. “I should have left you there! I should have never taken you with me!”

The clouds dissipate as quickly as they appeared. There’s no more sound except for Geralt’s heavy breathing.

“ _You don’t mean that.”_ Dandelion sounds heartbroken. “ _You don’t mean that; please.”_

“Of course I don’t mean it, but I’m-!” Geralt just buries his head in his hands. How the fuck is he supposed to say it?

Dandelion clears his throat, sounds hollow. “ _You can put me back. If you want. I woul-“_

“Never.” He snarls. “I’m not going to throw you away, but I’m worried, Dandelion. For the first time in a long time, I don’t know what to do. We don’t know what’s happening to you or why and I don’t know what it’s doing to you. How am I supposed to-” He forces himself to stop before he can embarrass himself anymore. 

_“Oh, Geralt.”_

They agree not to take their time as they have been, no lingering. He pushes Roach hard and stops only to let her rest, takes a few hours to meditate for himself, but he doesn’t take any more hunts and he doesn’t go through any more towns.

They just need to get to Vizima.

*

They get to Triss’ home just like they did to Yen’s, but this time they arrive midday. Geralt is tired, exhausted, but he waves off her offer of a bed and instead takes a seat at her table. He tells her everything, recounts it all for her like he did for Yennefer, and everything that happened on their way here. Triss, like Yennefer, is curious, but she still manages to look sympathetic.

After he’s done, she holds out her hand as politely as she can. “May I?”

Dandelion tells him it’s okay and so Geralt places the necklace in her open palm, forcing himself to sit back in his seat. She takes her time, runs her fingertips over the cracked glass, and he can see her magic swirling around it. The examination takes an hour and, with every minute, his exhaustion becomes more apparent, but he shakes his head when Triss offers him the guest room. He trusts Triss like he trusts Yen, but he made Dandelion a promise. He’s sure he’ll feel silly for it later, but he won’t leave him.

“Would it be fair to say there was a powerful surge of emotion when the glass cracked?” Triss finally asks, glancing up at Geralt. Dandelion gives a quiet ‘ _Yes_ ’ and so Geralt nods. “It’s only a theory, but it’s possible you’ve developed enough power to free yourself.”

“ _Free myself? What does that mean?”_

She shakes her head. “I don’t know. You could be released from the necklace and have a physical body or you could be freed and you don’t. The magic from the necklace could be the only thing keeping you alive. It could be your magic has created the necklace as a sort of cocoon to protect you and it’s become unnecessary. These are all just theories. We won’t know for sure until it actually happens.”

Geralt brings his fist down on the table with a bit more force than he intends. “That’s not good enough.”

“I’m sorry I can’t be more help, but this sort of thing doesn’t happen every day, Geralt! I have never seen magic like this before. Yennefer and I are doing all we can.” Triss hands him back the necklace. “Get some sleep. Burning yourself out isn’t doing either of you any good.”

Geralt takes Dandelion and retires to the guest room, listens for Triss to get out of earshot. “Are you alright?”

 _“I don’t know. I wish I could remember more. The truth is I don’t even know if I’m human. I could be one of your friends you kill on the Path_.” Dandelion’s laugh is bitter. “ _What if I’m not even alive? What if this thing shatters and I’m just gone? And don’t tell me that won’t happen; you can’t know. The sorceresses don’t even know!”_

“Then we’ll find someone that does.” Geralt strips down, throws his clothes into the nearest chair, and falls onto the bed. “It won’t happen, Dandelion.” He puts the candle out and makes sure his voice doesn’t betray anything when he says, “I won’t let that happen.”

“ _Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”_

He’s been told that you can speak something into existence, make it truth, and so he whispers it fiercely into the dark, “I don’t. I won’t let it happen. I won’t let you disappear. I swear it.”

They don’t speak after that, but there’s music until Geralt falls asleep.

*

“ _What do you look like?_ ” Dandelion asks one day as they come back from town. Triss is reading and gives him a distracted wave as he goes into the kitchens.

Geralt stops, hand on a block of cheese, and then grunts. “Why?”

 _“I’m curious. When I saw you in that dream, I didn’t actually see you_.”

He grabs some of the salted ham as well and a bottle of wine and sets it on the table, trying to give the question some serious thought and ultimately settling for something verging on kind. “Unremarkable.” 

“ _Unremarkable? Really.”_ Dandelion’s voice is thick with sarcasm. “ _That’s all you’re going to give me?”_

He bites into the ham and chews, then swallows, before answering. “Yes.”

Dandelion stays quiet as long as he can, which is approximately fifteen seconds. “ _What color are your eyes?”_

“Dandelion-“

“ _Please, just humor me. Give me some sort of description. I. . . I don’t know if I’ll ever get to actually see you.”_

Geralt sighs heavily; he knows he’s being played, but also knowing better than to try and argue. “Yellow eyes. White hair. Sickly complexion. More scars than you can count. Is that enough?”

It’s Dandelion’s turn to sigh now. “ _Yes. Thank you. Shall I tell you more about the song I’ve been composing instead?_ ”

*

Geralt fucking hates mages. Pretentious fuckers, the whole lot of them. Talking to them is bad enough; fighting them is even worse. He growls as the mage raises his staff and calls down more lightning. The air crackles with electricity as he jumps back, uses Quen to shield himself, barely dodging the bolt. He’s been hit by some of the weaker attacks, has a few burns, but he can’t get hit by this one. Not if he wants to stay in the fight.

Triss is behind him, throwing fire, and trying to keep her own shields up, but this mage is strong and vengeful and power-hungry and he’s been staring at the necklace ever since he caught sight of it. It had started out as a request, turned into a demand, and ended in a fight when Geralt refused to hand Dandelion over. Apparently, he’d been following the surges of power like a hound, chasing them across the continent.

“You think your parlor tricks are going to work on me, witcher?!” The mage, Artaud, as Triss called him, looks manic, pointing his staff at Geralt. “I’ll have that necklace and that power one way or the other! I’m going to be a god! My mind cannot be swayed!”

Geralt scowls, deliberately not reaching for the necklace. He hasn’t even tried casting Axii because people like mages and sorcerers don’t react like normal humans, don’t bend and fold under the sign; they can resist it. But Dandelion’s been quiet during this fight.

“You’re not supposed to be using your powers.” He murmurs, barely able to hear himself over the static, over the panicked sounds of people fleeing the city. 

“ _Focus on the evil sorcerer, Geralt, and scold me later. If he gets a hold of me, I shudder to think what would happen.”_

Triss cries out then, struck by a bolt; he and Dandelion shout her name at the same time as Geralt runs towards her. The mage fires again and Geralt isn’t quick enough to move, is thrown back by the force of it. He hits a stone wall behind him hard and falls. He’s not sure if the blood he coughs up is because of the hit or the potions. He’s not even sure if it makes a difference anymore.

Artaud is moving forward, holding up a hand and squeezing; Geralt can feel his bones grinding and being crushed as if he’s in a vice. “You should have just handed it over, witcher. I would have made this quick. But now you’re going to die in as much pain as I can manifest. How does that sound?” He looms overtop him now with a menacing smile before the mage is suddenly struck to the side, thrown as if hit by a cannonball.

“It sounds like an excellent idea.” Yennefer’s voice is shaking with rage. “Geralt, are you alright?” She kneels next to him, attention still on Artaud.

“Been better.” He spits out more blood. It hurts too much to stand, but he manages to sit up, using the wall as support. “Yen, you have-get Triss.” He pulls the necklace off and holds it out to her. “Take Triss and Dandelion and go.”

“Or I could just kill him now and we’ll all go.” There’s an explosion then and a beam of light as Artaud stands, screaming in outrage.

“He won’t stop. He’s going to burn himself out-“ Geralt wheezes, curls his free arm around his ribcage. “But he’s going to kill us first. You can’t carry us all.” 

“If you think I’m-“

“ _I’m not going to leave you-“_

Geralt laughs painfully, coughing out more blood. “Go! Yen, please!” Figures the one time they’d get along would be the worst possible moment. He forces the necklace into her hand.

Artaud is stalking forward, his staff abandoned and his magic pouring out of every inch of him. Yen stands, using every ounce of her will to stop him; Triss is still on the ground, but she’s awake and helping. Together they manage to keep him where he is, but it’s not enough. Geralt’s not that lucky.

“Witcher!” Artaud reaches out and his magic pools into his palm.

Geralt uses the last bit of his strength and flings Yen away with Aard as Artaud prepares to fire.

“ _No_!”

No one’s prepared for the blast of energy that shoots through the mage, so bright it’s blinding against the dark storm clouds that have gathered. The smell of burning flesh is so thick it settles on Geralt’s tongue; Artaud screams in agony as the energy rattles the windows and Geralt can hear glass shattering. The wind is whipping around so violently it almost feels like shards cutting into him.

His blood is pounding in his ears. Everything is getting brighter and louder, building to a crescendo until-

Everything stops. His vision returns to normal, the light no longer blinding him. There’s no wind, no noise at all, in fact; Geralt, for a moment, wonders if he’s gone deaf. But he can hear Yen’s panting and he can see Artaud’s charred body on the ground and-

“Think you can kill my witcher?” The voice is slurred and it sounds so different when it’s not muffled in his head, coming from glass, but Geralt would know it anywhere. “Absolutely not.”

Dandelion.

He’s naked, hands barely up as Artaud’s were, his skin pale and he collapses, his legs crumpling. Geralt is in so much pain, but he’s on his feet and stumbling over, dropping to his knees.

Fuck. Dandelion. His eyes are closed; his chest is rising and falling and he looks so fucking young.

“Geralt? We have to go.” Yen has her arm around Triss’ waist and a portal open. “We need to go. Can-“

“I have him.” How could he not?

Yen and Triss watch him pick Dandelion up; he’s in so much fucking pain, but Dandelion’s here. He follows them through the portal without a second thought.

  
*

The portal lands them back in Novigrad in Yen’s home; Yen sets Triss down in a chair, brushing the woman’s hair out of her face tenderly. Geralt falls onto the chaise lounge with Dandelion in his lap, grunting in pain.

“Stay here. And, Geralt, stop bleeding on my furniture.” Yen ducks into her study, jars clinking and drawers opening. 

Fuck. Dandelion looks like he’s in his twenties, couldn’t be any older than thirty. Geralt has a hand cupped around the back of Dandelion’s neck, fingers brushing the hair at his nape. Brown hair. He wonders what color his eyes are. 

“So this is Dandelion.” He glances up at Triss. She’s looking at them both fondly. “He’s not what I was expecting.”

“Wait until he opens his mouth.” Yen hands Triss a cup of tea that smells foul and tries to do the same to Geralt. When he doesn’t take it, her stern look softens. “I’ll look him over, but you need to drink this first.” He takes the tea and gulps it down, ignoring the taste, before he sets it on the table. Yen sighs and tilts Dandelion’s head towards her. She hums, looking him. “In case it wasn’t already obvious, he’s expended too much power. He’ll be asleep for a while, but otherwise he appears to be in good health. You, on the other hand, are bleeding. On my furniture.”

At her insistence, he carries Dandelion into the spare room and sets him onto the bed, pulling the sheet over his lower half. He can feel Yen’s judgemental look fixed on him as he pulls up a chair next to the bed, but she wisely doesn’t say anything. She leaves Geralt another cup of tea and shuts the door behind her.

Geralt sinks to his knees on the floor and meditates so his body can knit back together.

*

Yen’s right. Dandelion sleeps for a good while. It’s unsettling; Geralt’s so used to the man making some kind of noise whether it’s talking or singing and he has to focus on the fact that Dandelion is still breathing, still alive. His own body heals with no trouble, not even a new scar, over the next few days, but he doesn’t leave. When Triss opens a portal to go home, having recovered herself, he goes just long enough to retrieve Roach and his other things to bring them back; as he leads Roach to the portal, he passes through the same street the fight was on, but he can’t find any trace of the necklace, only scorch marks.

“He’ll be awake soon enough.” Triss pats his shoulder. “ You just have to be patient. You’ve waited all this time. A few more days won’t be anything compared to that.”

It doesn’t make him feel any better or any calmer. When he’s done memorizing the man’s face, Geralt meditates at the foot of the bed, listening to Dandelion’s heartbeat or just breathing him in, that sweet smell of honeysuckle. That’s what he’s doing when he hears Yen come in and when he looks over his shoulder, she’s leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed over her chest.

“There’s talk of necrophages terrorizing farmers. Seemed like something that would interest you.” 

“I’m not going anywhere, Yen.”

“And neither is he, Geralt.” She sounds exasperated. “You’re driving yourself mad. Go kill something. Earn some coin and visit the brothel for pity’s sake. Find some way to occupy yourself.” She’s known him too long to be scared of the growl that comes out of him as he stands and turns to face her. 

He shifts his weight, face twisted into a frown. “Fine.” He finally says. “But-“

“I promise if anything changes, I’ll find you.” She kisses his cheek. “Now go.”

He rides out and finds himself talking to Roach. He hasn’t done that since Dandelion-

Geralt shakes his head and urges her to go faster. No time for that now.

*

He almost regrets taking the gold for a contract as pitiful as this. It’s a lone necrophage that falls on his blade so easy Geralt feels like less of a witcher; he doesn’t even need any potions. The ride out was longer than the fight itself, but he collects the coin because he’s going through the motions and heads back, humming one of Dandelion’s ballads under his breath. Yen’s suggestion about the brothel crosses his mind exactly once and is immediately discarded. All he wants to do is get back.

Geralt’s almost at Yen’s doorstep when he hears shouting and he’s off Roach and at the bottom of the steps when the door flies open and Dandelion comes out, wearing a shirt that’s too big for him and tying laces on a pair of trousers. 

“I can’t believe you would just send him out there! He’s in no-“ Dandelion looks up then and freezes as he locks eyes with him. 

Blue. Dandelion’s eyes are blue. It shouldn’t be as earth shattering as it seems.

Neither of them move, not even when Yen comes out, throws her hands up, and goes back inside, cursing under her breath. Geralt finally moves up the steps and stops just one below Dandelion, looking up into those blue eyes.

“Hello, Dandelion.” He finally says, sounding much calmer than he feels.

“Hello, Geralt.” Dandelion’s eyes are flitting across his face and then down his body and for a moment, Geralt’s worried because he knows how people react to him; he’s waiting for the fear or the disgust. Instead, he gets a small smile. “I distinctly remember you telling me that-what was the word you used? Ah, yes, that you were unremarkable. Well, I’m not sure whose reflection you’ve been looking at, but I feel lied to! Unremarkable-”

Geralt laughs. He doesn’t mean to, but he’s just so fucking relieved. Dandelion looks simultaneously fond and frustrated with his hands on his hips. When he finally stops laughing, Geralt takes the final step up and pulls Dandelion close, embraces him and breathes him in. Dandelion’s in Geralt’s clothes and the smell of them both makes his chest rumble in something embarrassingly close to a purr. He feels Dandelion hug him in return, letting out a shaky breath.

“I didn’t think I’d ever get a chance to do this.” He murmurs it against Geralt’s throat so low that even Geralt has to strain to hear it. 

“Hey.” Geralt pulls back and cups Dandelion’s jaw, angling his face up so he can look him in the eye. “I made you a promise.”

“I know. I don’t know what I was thinking doubting you.” Dandelion smiles though it’s a little watery; it’s still said sarcastically though and it’s so familiar but so much better because he’s actually here.

“If you two are finished?” Yen’s at the door, tapping her foot. “I’m not sure you should be on your feet quite yet.”

Geralt’s grip tightens involuntarily; over Dandelion’s shoulder, his lip curls into a silent snarl as he glares at her. It hits him very abruptly, this irrational thought, that he’ll have to share Dandelion with the world now and the raw jealousy that washes over him makes him let go and take a step back.

Dandelion says something cutting to Yennefer and they’re both going back inside, but Geralt’s feet are like stones and he can’t seem to move forward. Fuck. He didn’t prepare himself for this. There’s a tug on his arm and he refocuses; Dandelion’s brow is crinkled in confusion and his hand is around Geralt’s wrist.

“Are you alright?” Dandelion whispers, ducking close, and the scent of them both makes Geralt’s chest rumble again. The man raises an eyebrow and the rumbling gets even worse when Dandelion doesn’t look impressed. “You cannot leave me alone in there with her. Not if you want the house to still be standing. Come on.” 

He lets Dandelion move him. He has a feeling that’s going to happen a lot.

*

It turns out that Dandelion had only just woken up and stormed out when he realized Geralt had gone on a hunt. 

“If you had let me explain, I could have told you it’s been six days.” Yennefer points her fork at him and he watches as Dandelion’s cheeks turn pink with a fascination that borders on predatory. “Geralt’s been recovered longer far longer than you have.”

“I didn’t realize any time had passed.” Dandelion bites into a berry and moans. “And I didn’t realize how hungry I was!” He starts eating quickly, tearing into his food, and only stops when Geralt holds a hand up.

“Slow down. Only just got your stomach back.” Geralt hands him some water and he drinks slowly, making pleased sounds that remind Geralt of the last time he visited a brothel. It leaves him on the edge of his seat, tensed and ready for. . .something.

He catches the knowing smile on Yen’s face and scowls. She opens her mouth, probably to tease him, when her chair cracks and dumps her on the floor. Geralt glances back to Dandelion, who looks as surprised as Yen does. And a little guilty.

“So you still have your magic.” Yennefer stands, brushing herself off as she pulls another chair up to the table. “Question is are you in control of it?” She narrows her eyes. “Did you mean to do that?”

Dandelion recognizes it as a trap based on the way he’s staring her down and he squares his shoulders. Before he can answer, Geralt cuts in. “Can’t this wait?”

“It’s a legitimate question. If he’s not in control, it could be a problem.” He can feel magic swirling in the air. “Did you mean to do that, Dandelion?”

“I have it under control.” Dandelion takes another bite, chewing and glaring. Yennefer glares back. 

“Did you remember anything?” Geralt asks, not wanting another fight though he regrets mentioning it when Dandelion’s face falls.

“Not yet.” He starts pushing his food around his plate. “I don’t even know if I want my memory to come back. Something must have happened to trap me in that necklace. Who knows what it was or how long ago.” Dandelion sighs heavily. “I don’t even know if I’m human. What if I’m not?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Yen pauses in her chewing and Dandelion looks up from his plate. “It doesn’t matter? Geralt, you’re a witcher.”

He shrugs and shoves half a roll into his mouth. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll figure it out. All of it.” 

“It’s that simple.” It’s dripping in sarcasm and he can feel Dandelion’s foot nudging his for emphasis. “Really.”

Geralt swallows and shrugs again. “Yes. Really. We’ll figure it out. Your memory. Your powers. All of it. You being human or not doesn’t matter.”

He hopes he’s being clear enough. He’s not going anywhere. Based on the look on Dandelion’s face, he gets it.

*

Geralt convinces Dandelion to stay inside for four days. Dandelion pouts, but spends the time writing down every song he’s written and reading every book Yennefer will lend him. He tries to be subtle watching Dandelion, tries to pretend that he’s just making sure he’s adjusting to having a body, but Geralt would be lying if he said he wasn’t interested in the line of the man’s throat or the way he juts his hip out when he’s making a point during one of his rants. 

It’s obvious that he’s not entirely focused during these rants because Dandelion’s noticed, has had to call Geralt back to attention more than once, and Yennefer finds it hilarious because she knows exactly what’s going on, why Geralt’s struggling with the situation.

“You could just tell him.” She mentions as they share a drink; Dandelion’s asleep upstairs, getting his scent all over Geralt’s sheets, and just the idea has Geralt unable to fully relax. He and Dandelion haven’t touched since that first day because everything about Dandelion makes Geralt question his control. “He’s obviously quite fond of you.”

He snorts. “I’ve been the only person he could talk to for months. He doesn’t know any better.” 

“You really think that’s all it is? Self-pity doesn’t suit you.” She sighs. “You act as though Triss and I haven’t spoken to him. He and I don’t get along, but from what you’ve told me, he seemed very fond of Triss during your stay with her.”

“He just got his body back.” It wouldn’t be right to press for something so selfish, not when there’s more important things for Dandelion to focus on. 

“I know you want what’s best for him, Geralt.” Yennefer finishes her drink and stands, puts a hand on his shoulder. “But how much of this is fear?”

“Yen-“ He starts to speak, but she holds up her other hand, gesturing for him to wait.

“You’re worried you’re going to push too far and he’s going to leave you.” She cups his cheek and gives him a surprisingly tender look. “You won’t. You adore that man. Would you ever stop him from going if he ever wanted to leave?”

“ **Never**.” The ferocity with which he says it makes her smile.

“Have some faith in yourself. You’re a good man.” She pats his cheek. “Now stop sulking. He’s going to want to see and do everything tomorrow and you’re going to be at his heels every step of the way. Don’t even try to deny it.”

*

The next morning, Dandelion takes him by the arm and pulls him all over town; once again, he seems most interested in plays and performers than anything else, but now Geralt can see how excited he is, how he’s on the edge of his seat for every performance, and then how his brow crinkles as he becomes critical.

“I think. I think I used to do this. Before.” Dandelion’s watching a bard perform and Geralt can recognize the man’s off key even without prompting.

He can see Dandelion’s fingers twitching. “Would explain a lot. Your music and your magic seem to go hand in hand.” Geralt hums and wraps his hand around Dandelion’s wrist. “Let’s go, Dandelion. Got an idea.”

He takes him to the music shop a few blocks away and leans against the wall, watching Dandelion flit between instruments; when he goes to pick an instrument up, Geralt warns the shopkeeper off with a glare. To his credit, Dandelion is careful and very discerning. Very few instruments catch his eye. The pan flute is picked up and then set down so fast one could argue it was dropped; the lyre and mandolin are considered a little longer, but ultimately discarded. He eventually picks up a lute and doesn’t put it back down again.

“Like it?” Geralt asks and Dandelion plucks at the strings. He looks like he’s remembering an old friend; he just nods, can’t seem to muster up any words, and doesn’t take his eyes off of it.

Geralt suspects that Dandelion’s magic is to blame for the low price, but he pays for the lute with no hesitation; he enjoys the gentle music all the way back to Yen’s. It sounds so much like it did before, relaxing and sweet like it was on the road, and he can see people taking notice. A few children are following them, ducking behind carts when he turns, and clapping along. Dandelion either doesn’t realize it or doesn’t mind; he’s grinning from ear to ear, but he’s glancing between the lute and Geralt like he can’t decided what to focus on.

“Mister!” The children finally become brave enough to run up to them. “Can you play for us? Just a little? Please?”

Dandelion looks to him and he shrugs, settles back against the stone wall to get comfortable. “Your audience awaits.”

“I must warn you I am out of practice! Be kind!” He looks excited; his cheeks are rosy and he’s thrumming with energy, shifting from foot to foot.

“Or else your witcher will eat us!” A blonde haired boy cries from the back and all eyes turn to Geralt, who tries his best not to look intimidating; he’s not carrying his swords, which should help, but he can’t hide his eyes or his hair. 

"Who? Geralt?” Dandelion’s shock is exaggerated and he fixes Geralt with an admonishing stare that he can’t hold; it turns fond quickly and then takes on an edge that seems heated, makes Geralt rumble helplessly. “No. My witcher is harmless.” Dandelion refocuses on his little crowd and strums; Geralt can see how his magic makes the children beam, their weariness of Geralt quickly fading. “Now, what sort of song do you want me to try first?”

Geralt watches him play and watches those kids adore him and tries not to feel like he’s swallowed stones. The whole world is going to love Dandelion and they should. Dandelion is going to learn that he’s not tied to Geralt and he shouldn’t be. Dandelion is going to look at Geralt and then look at the world and he’s going to realize he doesn’t have to settle for a witcher.

And he shouldn’t.

*

“I think my name used to be Julian.” It’s said casually over dinner about a week or so after his performance for the kids; Yennefer’s gone out and it’s just the two of them. Geralt stops chewing, swallows, and leans back. Dandelion doesn’t look happy about the revelation.

“Doesn’t suit you.” It’s the right thing to say based on the relieved sigh he gets.

“Oh thank you! I hate it!” He huffs and pokes at the food on his plate. “Julian.” He mumbles. “It makes my skin crawl like-“ He stops, biting his lip. “Like something’s attached to that name. Something terrible.”

“Why not pick a different one?” Geralt takes another bite with a shrug, watching Dandelion’s reaction with interest.

“I can’t very well be Dandelion for the rest of my life and I won’t go back to being Julian.” Geralt can see him thinking, though, turning the idea over in his head; he seems almost sad about the fact, about changing the name Geralt gave him. He smiles then, seemingly hit with an idea. “Jaskier. I think I want my name to be Jaskier.”

“Jaskier.” Dandelion’s -Jaskier’s- cheeks turn pink and Geralt’s hand tightens on his knife; his whole body is on edge. “Suits you. I like it.”

Jaskier goes back to eating and Geralt watches him. In the back of his mind, Geralt knew he wasn’t going to be his Dandelion forever. He just wishes it could be for a little bit longer.

*

They stay in Nilfgaard for a fortnight until Jaskier suggests going back to the coast and back to the altar Geralt found him on. 

Geralt has been lured into a false sense of hopefulness these past weeks; Jaskier had been performing at taverns and on the street and had dragged him to every single one; he’d been lost in the idea that they could have stayed that way forever. It had been a ridiculous notion; Geralt’s a witcher and his life is the Path, but he’d wondered if Jaskier would want to go with him, make a life with him. 

Geralt’s ready to face reality now.

“We haven’t learned anything about who or what I am.” They’re discussing it in Yennefer’s study after an incredibly frustrating afternoon. 

The memories that have come back have varied in their usefulness anywhere from ‘I think I had a brother’ to ‘my mother taught me how to do magic’, from ‘we used to make wishes on weeds’ to ‘I found her dead on her bedroom floor’. But they’ve stopped coming, even the useless ones.

Yennefer had tried delving into Jaskier’s mind, tried probing like she does with Geralt, and had been denied; it had looked painful for her and Jaskier had apologized genuinely, said it wasn’t intentional, that he was trying.

“I think going back is the only way we’re going to move forward.” Jaskier is sitting on Yen’s desk, even though she hates it, and runs a hand through his hair. 

“They didn’t know anything about the necklace.” Geralt doesn’t like it; he keeps thinking back to their fight. _You can put me back. If you want. I woul-_

“It might be different when they actually see me. Maybe one of them will recognize me.”

“Or they could be the ones that trapped you.” Geralt can tell Jaskier’s getting annoyed, but he can’t let him walk into this with false hope. _I should have left you there! I should have never taken you with me!_

“Do you think this is easy for me? Do you think I want to do this?” Jaskier throws his hands up and the room is shaking. “I don’t know what else to do!”

“ **Enough**.” Yennefer’s voice is booming, cutting through their noise like thunder, bringing them to silence. “Both of you. Geralt, upstairs now.”

He storms out of the room with her right behind. He hears Jaskier’s heavy breathing as she shuts the door behind her and together they go up the stairs to the bedroom he and Jaskier have been sharing. 

“You’re being an ass.” She tells him, brutally honest as always. “You know damn well this is the only option he has left. Why are you making this harder than it has to be? You promised him that you would help him figure it out. Was all of that a lie?”

Geralt sits on the bed, head in his hands. “You know it wasn’t.” Yen taps her foot impatiently. 

“Then what is it?” Her questioning is cut off by a door slamming downstairs; Geralt jumps to his feet and he and Yen lock eyes. “Shit!”

He’s down the stairs and out the door like he’s an arrow loosed from a bow; Jaskier is halfway down the street, lute thrown over his shoulder, moving quickly, but Geralt catches up fairly quickly. 

“Jaskier!” He reaches for Jaskier’s wrist, but the man shakes him off.

“No!” It’s starting to storm and now Geralt isn’t just recalling their fight; they’re almost reenacting it and it makes his gut roll uncomfortably. “Just go back with Yennefer! I can do this myself! I-“ Jaskier swallows, looking furious and hurt and on the edge of tears. “I don’t need you.”

Geralt recoils like he’s been struck. The wind is picking up and he can smell the rain before it even starts falling. Jaskier starts moving, starts leaving, and Geralt has never felt more unsteady in his life. “Jaskier, wait.”

“Why? You made all of those promises, Geralt!” Jaskier turns, pointing his finger at him; he sweeps his wet hair back away from his eyes. “Did you mean any of them?”

“I meant all of them!” It tears out of him before he can swallow it and then he just can’t stop. “I meant every word, Jaskier. I want to help you and I will, but I’m not a fool. You’re not trapped anymore. You’re not stuck here-“ He finally manages to just shut up.

“Stuck? What are you talking about?” Jaskier steps forward into Geralt’s space. “Have you- Did you think I was staying here because I didn’t know any better? That I was going to wake up one day and look at you and think ‘I could do so much better’?” Geralt doesn’t say a word. “I could have left whenever I wanted. I haven’t felt trapped from the moment I woke up with a body. I broke free because I love you and I’m still here because I love you.” Jaskier grabs the hem of Geralt’s shirt and makes sure to look into his eyes, his expression gentle. “I don’t ever want to be without you.”

Geralt kisses him then because how could he not? It feels like they’re in one of Jaskier’s songs, spinning towards each other since the beginning. He presses their lips together, feels Jaskier smile, brushes his thumb against the soft skin of Jaskier’s cheek and pulls him as close as he can; he opens his eyes and has to shut them again to block out the blinding sunlight. He presses a kiss to Jaskier’s jaw and takes Jaskier’s hands in his own.

“We can go whenever you want.” He makes sure to look Jaskier in the eye and hopes that the man can read what Geralt’s still not man enough to say. “Might even be able to take a portal if you want.”

“Triss said you hated portals?”

“I do. Can make an exception for you.” 

They walk back to Yen’s, bumping shoulders the whole way. Jaskier’s hand is warm in his and the man hums the whole way back. Geralt doesn’t even mind when Yen tells them they’re disgusting. Her boot heel ends up breaking and Jaskier tries to feign innocence; when she throws it at them, it ends up shattering one of the windows and Jaskier’s laugh is infectious. 

They turn in for the night and he and Jaskier slide between the sheets together. “I used to think about this. All those nights I was trapped in that glass and knowing you were right there.” He’s astride Geralt, rolling his hips, looking so in love. “Wanting to touch you so much and not being able to.”

Geralt kisses him, presses him to the bed, and feels like he could do this forever, doesn’t know if it’s magic or if it’s just Jaskier, doesn’t really care. He just knows that this feels right, that they feel right. 

*

They wake up the next morning and join Yen downstairs. She offers them a flat thank you and Geralt can see she’s trying not to smile.

The window looks as though it was never broken. Yen’s heel is fixed, as good as new. 

Jaskier kisses Geralt’s cheek and they eat breakfast in silence.

*

They do eventually end up talking a portal back to the town where Geralt found him. It’s a sunny day, the breeze bringing a slight chill from the sea, and Geralt can tell Jaskier is almost in tears the moment they step onto the dirt road leading into town. There’s a half collapsed fence that he touches almost reverently.

“My brother and I used to race from this post all the way to the cliff.” Jaskier sounds confused when he says it, in a haze. Geralt tells Roach to wait and leaves her there, following Jaskier as he walks along the broken pieces. “He always won!”

They go into the town and the townspeople pause in their chores to look at them; Jaskier ignores them all, recounting memories every other step, his hand on Geralt’s wrist like he’s an anchor.

“We stole apples from the old woman that used to live here.”

“My brother fell right here! He bled all over this stone and got a nasty scar on his nose.”

“The bakery used to be right here! The woman’s pies were terrible. I have no idea how she stayed in business.”

He frowns every once in a while, pausing to look at certain trees and houses, making comments about how this tree was smaller, or that house wasn’t there before; Geralt takes note of the towering trees and the old houses. This continues through the town, past the alderman’s house, and eventually to the cliffside.

Jaskier doesn’t need any direction. He lets go of Geralt’s wrist and moves like he’s being pulled to the altar, his steps getting faster until he’s almost running, until he stops in front of that stone platform, his eyes on the altar.

“She used to make us practice here.” He steps up onto the stone and there’s a burst of wind through the trees, music in the distance; Jaskier keeps stepping forward until he can put a hand on the stone table. “She had us pick instruments. She had her harp and I had my lute.” Jaskier pulls the lute off his shoulder and plucks the strings thoughtfully. “My brother could always beat me racing, but I was better at music and magic. I was almost as good as my mother.”

“You’re better than our mother ever was.” They both turn; Geralt pulls his sword, alarmed that he didn’t notice someone sneaking up on them. “Maybe that’s why she loved you more.”

The alderman is there, a few meters back, and his son is there, holding the old man up; the alderman looks as though he can barely stand. “Uncle Julian?” The son asks, staring at Jaskier like he’s looking at a ghost.

It hits Geralt all at once. The cryptic message with the contract. The flute music from the old man’s home. The wizard in Vizima crowing about becoming a god.

The gnarled scar on the alderman’s nose.

“Hammond?” Jaskier asks, looking between the alderman and his son. “Skjall?”

“Uncle Julian, you- you look exactly the same! I don’t understand!” Skjall turns to his father. “You said he was dead. He fell off the cliff when I was a boy.”

“Jaskier, get behind me.” Geralt tries to step in front of him, but his feet feel nailed to the stone beneath him; Jaskier moves past him, his lute shuddering out music without him even touching the strings.

“When mother and I used to play, people would come from far away to listen.” Jaskier’s voice is shaking. “They’d ask for guidance or courage and all we had to do was play them a song. The magic would do the rest.” Geralt can feel the stone trembling beneath him. “Then she died. She died and it was just you and me.”

“You were growing more powerful by the day.” Hammond manages to take a step forward. “My magic was nothing compared to yours and she wouldn’t teach me, couldn’t make me stronger-“

“You killed our mother.” The wind is whipping around them; Geralt can hear wood splintering as the trees bend. “You killed our mother to try and take her power and it still wasn’t enough.” The music from Jaskier’s lute is eerie and building to a terrifying crescendo. 

“You had all of that power! You could do anything you wanted! You could have had an army! You could have been a god! But you wasted it making people happy! It should have been me! ” Hammond reaches for Skjall, but the man takes a step back. “Our mother loved you more than me! My own family loved you more than me!”

Lightning strikes the ground; the air feels charged and Geralt can only watch as Jaskier keeps moving forward towards Hammond. “You killed our mother and you still didn’t have enough power to kill me! So you trapped me. You tried to strip me of my powers and you left me here! Alone! With nothing!” 

“The witcher shouldn’t have been able to find you! No one should have!” Hammond raises his hand to Geralt, but the wind shoves him to the ground, cuts at his face. 

“Father, please!” Skjall falls to his knees. “Enough!” He covers his ears; there’s blood spilling out of them, the dirge so loud it must be painful.

“No!” Hammond shouts. “It will never be enough! The wrong brother became a god! It should have been me, but it was always you, Julian!”

“My name isn’t Julian anymore! I’m not Julian and I’m not a god! Neither of us will ever be gods, Hammond!” Jaskier’s face is covered in tears; he grabs Hammond by the back of his neck and brings their foreheads together. “You’ll always be my brother. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Everything goes white. There’s no wind, no music, no sound at all, but Geralt’s own breathing. He can tell he’s shouting because he can feel his throat moving and he knows he’s calling Jaskier’s name, reaching for him, but for a horrifying moment, he thinks Jaskier might just be gone.

Then, he finds Jaskier’s hand and holds it tight. His vision comes back; he can hear the waves from below crashing against the rocks. Skjall is cradling his father’s body. His pan flute is broken, on the ground next to him. Jaskier’s sitting on the edge of the stone platform, his lute next to him.

“She used to call me Dandelion.” He whispers as Geralt takes a seat next to him. “My mother used to call me Dandelion. That’s why I was trapped that way. I don’t know if it was his idea of a joke or if she was still trying to protect me even after she was gone.” Jaskier leans heavy against him, but Geralt’s strong. He can bear the weight.

*

Skjall doesn’t want their help with his father’s body. “Please, just. Just go. Don’t come back.” 

Geralt opens his mouth to protest, but Jaskier shakes his head; he starts back down towards the town without a word. Geralt follows, only pausing to watch Skjall hurtle the broken flute over the edge and into the sea. 

The wind blows through the trees, but there’s no music this time.

*

Hammond’s death seems to lift a veil that’s been over the town. The older people of the town watch Jaskier leave like they’re in a dream; a couple of them look like they’re mouthing his name, but Jaskier ignores them; he moves through the town like he’s afraid to stop, pushing past all of those spots that made him stop before like those memories are going to drown him.

They make it out of the town, to the broken down fence, and Jaskier collapses against it. “I wish I didn’t remember any of it. I got it all back just to lose it again.” Geralt pulls him against his chest and they rest there for a while.

They have time to linger.

*

When Jaskier finally stops sobbing, Geralt puts him on Roach and they leave the town behind. There’s no way of contacting Yen and getting another portal so they just start walking.

Jaskier doesn’t say a word, no songs, no music, nothing. 

Geralt finds himself filling the void. He’s not a musician and his voice isn’t one for songs, but he can talk and he does, pulling any story he hasn’t already told Jaskier. Each day seems to bleed together and even when his voice gets hoarse, he doesn’t stop talking.

They make camp under a thin patch of trees and Geralt tucks Jaskier against him, tells him the story of how his mother left him; he stares into the fire and tells him the story of the trials that made him a witcher. It’s not a good story or one he particularly likes telling, but he hopes it makes Jaskier feel less alone.

Geralt wakes up to gentle humming and sees Jaskier in front of the fire that should have gone out hours ago. He hopes that means they’re going to be okay.

*  
They make it to the next town and Geralt fully intends to pass it when a man calls out to him, waving. “Witcher!” Jaskier slows Roach to a stop as the man waves at them; Geralt frowns, tilting his head. 

There are children milling about as they change course, but they don’t run from him; there are people smiling as they pass and Geralt stops in front of that man, suddenly realizing where they are.

This is the town where he killed the griffin. The man, Jonah, guides them towards the inn. The pock marked man from before turns out to be the innkeeper and insists upon putting them up for the night free of charge. They put their stuff in a room and Geralt finds himself wandering through the worn path in the woods, passes the spot where the man’s daughter died, and ends up in the clearing where he killed the beast.

“It’s strange how well I remember this place. I couldn’t even see it the first time we were here.” He looks over his shoulder. Jaskier’s looking up at the sky. “This is where I realized how good of a man you were.” Geralt doesn’t want to say anything, just wants to listen to Jaskier speak, never wants to listen to anything else. “It looks different from how I pictured it.”

“Covered a lot of ground when you were trapped.” He finally says, enjoying the way Jaskier smiles. “Missed a lot.”

Jaskier takes his hand. “I want you to show me all of it.” 

Geralt can hear music in the distance. 

*

They leave town the same way Geralt did the first time. The people send them off with a bit of food and wave as they cross the horizon. They’re both on Roach, Jaskier curled up behind him, singing and asking questions about the next town they’re going to.

Jaskier’s arms are around him, one hand on his waist and another tapping a comforting rhythm against his chest.

**Author's Note:**

> Jaskier is a type of magic user based heavily on a Dungeons and Dragons bard. No, I am not joking. Most, if not all, of the magical things Jaskier does are based on D&D spells. The title is actually a combo of Bless and Guidance, two spells/cantrips from D&D. 
> 
> The play Geralt references is from the Witcher 3. Geralt plays the witcher.
> 
> So. You made it to the end. 
> 
> I hope at least three of you like this.


End file.
